


Hallelujah?

by phanpuppies



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blowjobs, Cutting, Daddy Issues, Depression, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Fluff, Hallelujah, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Partying, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Self-Harm, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, dan is pretty fucked up, lost all hope, phil is so good, seriously please be careful reading this, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:11:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8929990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phanpuppies/pseuds/phanpuppies
Summary: Dan hasn't really been living for years. He's just been getting by, using various illegal chemicals in an attempt to feel any positive emotion again. Then, during one of his darkest moments, Phil turns up out of the blue, and he seems simultaneously familiar and mysterious. He tries his best to show Dan some semblance of a light, of a reason to live. But how do you even begin to save someone who doesn't believe they deserve to be saved?





	1. dysfunctional

**Author's Note:**

> This is super dark and there is r*pe in the first chapter so please, if that is a trigger for you, be careful!! If anyone asks me to mark where a trigger is and give a brief description of any important content, I am totally willing to, but this fanfiction is really heckin heavy so honestly tread safely my dudes! Basically the entire thing is just one big trigger warning it's problematic. If you are sensitive to the topics mentioned in the tags, you may just want to avoid this fic and go read some cute fluff about kisses under the stars and flower crowns and pastel pink converse.  
> +  
> I'm a little dysfunctional, you're the problem, please don't awaken me.

Dan stepped outside, coughing as his lungs were suddenly confronted by the cold night air. He closed the door behind him and walked down the stairs in front of his house robotically, as though he was nothing more than an emotionless machine. He could see his breath, and he imagined that it was smoke. Not from a cigarette, but from the flames perpetually licking at his deeply charred bones. His thoughts crashed about his skull like meteors, and he focused on one.  _ Maybe next time I cough, I’ll see the ashes. _

His slender fingers explored the twenty dollar bill in his pocket as he walked. It was crumpled and soft from use. Dan had stolen it from his father as the old man was stumbling around the basement, reeking of whiskey and marijuana, mumbling the name “Lily” like a desperate prayer. Lily was Dan’s mother. She died when he was seven years old. She was starting on a new medication for bipolar depression, and although it helped, it made it difficult for her to pay attention to much. She left in the morning, after absentmindedly telling Dan “Goodnight.” She was practically sleepwalking. She couldn’t stop the car in time. A tragedy, the local newspaper called it. 

Dan’s father shut down after that. He didn’t even seem to notice when his son was in the room anymore. He was always either drunk or high on illegal drugs, living in a daze of artificial happiness; all that he cared about was liquid amnesia and love constructed carefully out of dissolving pills.

The brown haired boy’s face twisted in some bitter cocktail of grief, anger and pain for a moment, before he shook his head twice and it once again melted into the numb steel mask that he had spent the last ten years perfecting. That was all he would allow himself. Just a single moment of fragility when no one was around to see. If he let it go any farther, he knew he would break.

The silence was broken only by the steady thudding of Dan’s worn boots on the pavement and the sound of a frigid wind dancing frantically around the branches of skeleton trees. After a while, he began to hear very faint pop music; music that jumped and faded and made him think of strobe lights and red solo cups. As he continued to walk, he recognized the song currently playing as “The Hills” by The Weeknd. He turned a corner and a house came into view. It was three stories tall- a little bigger than the other buildings on this block- and all the lights were on, with many bright, flashing colors slipping out of the clouded windows. There were about a dozen people on the front lawn, passed out or smoking or laughing giddily and wildly. He made his way up the driveway, removing his hands from his pockets and pushing back his hair with his left hand while his right hand clutched his money. He stepped up to the front door and gave a nod to the hooded man standing just next to the entrance. Dan handed the man his twenty bucks, but he just scoffed and shook his head in response. 

“Fifty bucks to get in, kid.”

Dan took a deep breath through gritted teeth, looking away for a moment to hide his frustration. “My friend told me I only needed a twenty. Don’t try to trick me into giving you more cash.”

The other guy pulled his hood down and raised an eyebrow. “Rule was changed. Come back with fifty.”

Dan licked his lips, chapped from the cold. “Could I pay for the rest of it with…” He glanced downward, now biting his lower lip “other services?”

The man ground his teeth contemplatively, looking Dan up and down, seeming to decide whether he was worth it. After a minute of tension, he sighed. “Alright, come on.” He led the younger boy to the side of the house, where they were in the shadows and the pounding music had faded slightly. Dan didn’t waste any time in getting on his knees and unzipping the coarse jeans now at his eye level. He pulled out the thick cock and eagerly licked from the base to the head, drawing a low groan out of the stranger above him. He proceeded to wrap his lips around the swollen erection and deepthroat it eagerly, humming and moaning as if he enjoyed it. When the man started letting out strings of profanities mixed with phrases Dan would rather forget, it was clear he was close to climax. However, he suddenly pulled out with a soft  _ pop, _ gripping the base of his dick to keep from coming. “Turn around,” He grunted.

“What?” Dan asked cautiously, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand and looking up.

“Turn around and pull down your pants.” The man repeated, more forcefully this time.

“No. No. I don’t-” Dan didn’t get to finish his sentence. He now had a stranger pushing him harshly against the wall and shoving down his skinny jeans. He frantically tried to push away, scratching desperately at every inch of skin he could reach, but he wasn’t strong enough. The world around him vanished in favor of a series of violent flashbacks. His consciousness was ripped to a dark kitchen, his palms and knees pressed against the hard stone floor, and a hushed voice saying, over and over, “Good boy.” This was followed by the smell of cinnamon bourbon and cigarette smoke, and all he saw was a flickering candle. Now he was in a dark bedroom and he tasted blood. Dan snapped back to reality when his shoulders scraped painfully against the bricks behind him. He could feel an intense burning sensation as the man violated him without any preparation, without anything to dull the rough friction except a thin layer of his own saliva. He shuddered through his panic attack as the stranger ground out a “fuck,” and buried his face in Dan’s neck, stubble scratching the boy painfully. Dan stared at the dark blue sky, devoid of stars, waiting for it to be over as tears streamed involuntarily down his reddened cheeks. Finally, the man let out a vocal sigh and released all over the ground next to Dan’s feet. He zipped up his pants, shoving a cigarette in his mouth and glancing at Dan. 

“You can go in,” He said gruffly, before turning the corner to guard the door once again.

As soon as he was out of sight, Dan slid down the side of the house on shaking legs, careful to avoid the splashes of semen beside him. He pulled his sweatshirt sleeves over his hands, pressing his face into his knees and sobbing until his throat was raw and his eyes ran out of tears. He wiped his face off gingerly before getting to his feet, leaning against the wall for balance. He shoved his now-messy fringe out of his face, tugging a little in an attempt to ground himself. Then, he walked on weak legs to the front of the house where the stranger, hooded once again, let him in. As he inhaled the scent of alcohol and smoke, all he could think was, ‘ _ man, I am going to need to take a whole lot of shit if I’m going to feel any better.’ _


	2. garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for alcohol, drugs (ecstasy), and vivid descriptions of self harm.  
> +  
> He said, "darling who you praying to, and is anybody answering you?"

Dan rubbed his numb hands together in an attempt to warm them up, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. He reached a small folding table with various foods and liquors. He grabbed a red solo cup with chapped fingers and held it up to his face, taking a whiff to see if he could figure out what was inside. A strong chemical smell hit him, and he resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose. Some kind of vodka mixed with not enough orange juice. He weaved his way through people, trying to ignore the smell of sweat and vomit as he walked to the nearest wall. He leaned against it and sipped his drink. It tasted awful, but that didn’t matter.

Why did he drink? To get drunk.

He downed the remaining contents of the cup a little too quickly, tossing it to the floor and making his way back to the table to pick up another cup. Also vodka, only this one seemed to be mixed with tomato juice. A very bad attempt at a Bloody Mary, perhaps. He tried not to taste it as he gulped some down and strode to the nearest door, a little unsteady on his feet as the effects of the alcohol began to set in. He pushed it open and stepped outside onto a decomposing wooden deck.

There were a few other people out here, sitting around and smoking who knows what. One guy was throwing up on the grass while a teenage girl, presumably his friend, laughed beside him and patted his back just a little too hard. Dan looked down and began to walk on a crack between splintering boards, trying to see if he could still manage to put one foot in front of the other. He made it about a meter before he lost balance, the toes of his right foot landing too far to his left. He gave up on this game and made his way to the ledge. There was no railing, there didn’t need to be; the deck wasn’t far off the ground. The boy sat down on the edge, dangling his feet above a blanket of dead leaves, pulling a blunt and small, rusty yellow Bic lighter out of the pocket of his jeans. Always prepared.

With the rolled paper in between his dry lips, it took him a few tries before the pressure of his thumb was able to cause a spark. He held his hand up to protect the tiny flame from the biting wind as his blunt ignited. He shoved the lighter back into his pocket, taking a long drag. He could feel the smoke penetrating his lungs, curling softly into his veins, into his every bone. A feeling of calm filled his very being as he exhaled and watched the smoke drift away from his face, tugged by the wind. He brought it back up to his mouth, but this time a couple flakes of ash fell into his mouth. He spit it out, coughing weakly. _Maybe next time I cough, I’ll see the ashes._ The only dream of his that would ever come true.

+

Dan couldn’t quite remember how he got here. It was all sort of foggy and dim and he figured it didn’t matter anyway. He was sitting on a bed covered by a couple of ragged blankets and on the small wooden table next to him, there was a needle. The pounding music was still going on downstairs, and the shouts and the laughter that blended in with the melody were all made a bit softer by the soundproof walls and floor which now separated Dan from the chaos. If only he could build walls as strong as this in his mind. He glanced over at the needle. Funny, wasn’t it? The closest thing to a wall that he could find was a tiny, thin, hollow stick of metal. He laughed quietly, but it was bitter and cracked. Something in him was too broken to really laugh anymore. Maybe everything.

The boy pulled his phone out of his pocket with a shaking left hand, deftly pressing a passcode into the screen. It turned on to a phone number. The contact name? Mum. He hit the call button and began to feel a tightness in his throat. A few rings, as usual, followed by a dial tone to signify that he could now leave a message.

Dan’s father had done something with his mother’s phone a couple of months after she died. Probably broken it or sold it- more money for drugs. However, no one ever answered, so Dan just kept calling. He had called for the first time when he was eleven years old. He was drunk and sobbing, his throat wrecked, his words completely unintelligible as he let everything out. He must have ranted for an hour, calling over and over again when his message was cut off. Since then, it had become a habit of his. When everything was going wrong, he knew who to turn to.

It was ridiculous, but it helped.

“Hey-” his voice cracked miserably and he cut himself off, clearing his throat. “Hey, mum.” He took a deep, trembling breath, looking up at the stained ceiling in an effort to hold back tears. “It’s me. I’m here at some stranger’s house and I’m drunk and stoned and I’m about to do something bad and I wish you were here I wish you could come and save me from… from myself. From nobody? Here, I’ll give you the address. I think it’s 3057 Blake Road. Yeah.” His voice was beginning to slur severely. He sighed. _Articulate, Dan,_ the words came in his mother’s soft voice. He ran a violently shaking hand through his messy curled hair. “Please come help me. I have nobody, I have _nobody_.” His voice trailed off, merely a whisper by the time he said “nobody”. Something in between a sob and a scream was ripped from his chest, from his gut. Then, he regained control, sitting up straight and closing his tired eyes. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry, mum. I tried.”

He tapped the red button to end his call and pressed his phone up against his forehead, gritting his teeth so hard it hurt. He sniffed, sloppily wiping his nose with his right sleeve before pressing a tender kiss to the cold surface of his phone. “Goodbye.” He could barely hear himself speak. He set the phone down on the table, exchanging it for the needle. Heroin. A fitting name - reminded him of heroes. One of the only things that could make him feel alright anymore. He stood up, waving back and forth for a moment like a tree in a hurricane before he regained his balance. There was a small bathroom connected to this room, and, without really even realizing it, he decided that was the place. It was clean and neat compared to the rest of the house - almost cozy. He walked over, flicking on the lightswitch and locking the door behind him. He blinked slowly, visibly exhausted, setting his needle on the sink before bending down next to the bath tub and turning on the hot water.

He plugged the drain and began to strip off his clothes, which had begun to stick to his sweat coated body. He was sore all over. His arms and legs were sore because of the healing self-inflicted lacerations all over that had to be at least a few centimeters deep. His ass was sore because of - well, earlier. He didn’t want to think about it; if he did, he might vomit. There was a fresh burn on his hipbone from a cigarette the day before and his head was beginning to ache from all the alcohol. He ran his fingertips over his dilapidated body, this shell that he had mutilated from top to bottom. Wounds on top of scars on top of scars on top of scars. He felt the bumps and the curves, the scabs, the dents. He hated it all, but somehow he felt at peace.

The bath was almost entirely full. Dan pulled on the handle on the mirror to reveal a medicine cabinet. He pulled out a box of sleeping pills and looked at the brand. Perfect. He had encountered these particular pills before, and they happened to be quite potentially fatal - especially if you passed out in water. He set the box on the side of the bath, running his hands through the water to check the temperature. Hot - probably a little too hot, but he didn’t care. He hesitated a moment, before walking out to grab his phone. He turned it on once more, opening up his spotify app and shuffling his “Fucked Up” playlist. “Garden” by Halsey was playing a little too loudly. Dan set the phone down on the bathroom counter and shut off the tap, grabbing the needle once more. He slipped his toes in first, standing in the water. He sat down, wincing as the water instantly flowed around all his injuries, before relaxing once more as everything began to feel better. The boy reached over the edge of the tub, sifting through a pocket in his dark jeans until he found what he was looking for: an incredibly sharp double sided razor. He placed that on the side of the tub, too. Meant for shaving. Used for carving.

_You think my bruised knees are sorta pretty, and I think your tired eyes are kinda nice._

Now everything was set up. Time to start. First, Dan stuck the needle in the crook of his arm a little too forcefully, injecting every last drop of chemical bliss before tossing it to the floor. He breathed in sharply. The next step was to take the medication. He popped around 20 of them out of the case and swallowed them one by lonely one, washing it all down with a little too large of a sip of some gin he found on the floor. The room was swimming around the boy, drenched and small, his eyes unfocused, but he wasn’t going to go without bleeding just a little too much.

_And when I first met you there was a garden growing from a black hole in my mind._

He lifted the blade with trembling hands, pressing it to the skin of his right arm as hard as he could before dragging it sharply, the cold metal slicing his flesh, splitting his own molecules a little too far apart. There was now a long vertical line, blood filling in the spaces between white and yellow fat, but it wasn’t deep enough yet. He placed the razor in the existing cut and repeated the process, widening it, deepening it. He inhaled sharply at the pain, looking up and grinding his teeth together a little too roughly. Again. Again. Again. He hit a few veins, the dark red blood flowing out of him to the beat of his pulse - a little too quickly. The water soon turned red. He could no longer feel the cut at all - it was completely numb. Again. He could see the muscles of his arm. Again. The tendons of his wrist. Again. His vision was fading, and he finally dropped the strip of metal onto the white tile floor. This cut had to be a little over an inch deep. Damn. Possibly a new record for him.

As he felt his consciousness finally slipping away, he heard shouting. Initially, he thought it was just people partying a little too hard, but then there was a pounding of hands on wood and he heard someone yelling his name. He didn’t recognize the voice. Good thing he locked the door. The last thing he heard was a desperate rattling sound followed by a loud crash. He didn’t notice his eyes closing until all he could see was darkness.

The next song came on. Jeff Buckley. Hallelujah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, the repetition of the phrase "a little too" was intentional. I might make Dan's playlist on Spotify later, because it's gonna be a big part of the story. In fact, each chapter title is a song in his playlist. I hope you enjoyed another depressing as fuck addition to this story of a broken kid. It'll get more interesting soon, I promise.


End file.
